


A Matter of Chance

by aliveanddrunkonsunlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Georgian Period, a headcanon that insisted on being written even though i have no time, a roguish duke, bisexual Jaime i guess, it's a bit Shakespearean, just throwing out noble titles left and right, meet cute, no beta we die like men, very very very very loosely based on Bridgerton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveanddrunkonsunlight/pseuds/aliveanddrunkonsunlight
Summary: Two guests, one a much maligned duke, appear at the first ball of the season.He is here. That is about all he could say for it, as he surveys the room with dread. Couples circle each other on the dance floor as older members of the ton watch from the sidelines, speculating about the matches to be made.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 159
Kudos: 228





	1. The Duke

**Author's Note:**

> A homage, of sorts, to Bridgerton. I am throwing around noble titles with abandon (i.e. this is historical guesswork at best.) 
> 
> For now, there will be two parts. Thank you to FF for reading this, particularly since I wrote it in a sleep deprived haze.

“Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.” -Jane Austen, _Pride & Prejudice_

*

Jaime smoothes a hand over the gold cravat before stepping out of the carriage. He would have been more comfortable arriving on horseback, but his aunt, Marchioness Frey (nee Lannister), insisted she would not have her favorite nephew smelling like horse dung at the first ball of the season. 

The “season”. It is not his first. Not even his fourth. 

In truth, he detested being a part of King’s Landing society and thus far had refused to marry, but his siblings seemed content to have their family’s name dragged through the mud, even as their father lay dying in Casterly Rock. For years, there had been rumors that his sister, the Queen, had never loved King Robert. She had fallen for one of her own personal guards, Rhaegar Targaryen, and although Jaime never questioned his twin about it, one only had to look at the white blonde hair of her sons and the violet eyes of her daughter to know it was true. Then his younger brother had chosen to marry a commoner, and although he was happy to see his brother content, no member of the ton seemed capable of understanding why someone would choose to marry for love. 

While a journey to Estermont and the potential promise of Lyseni pirates held more sway than attending a ball, Jaime knows better than to argue with his aunt, so he is here. That is about all he could say for it, as he surveys the room with dread. Couples circle each other on the dance floor as older members of the ton watch from the sidelines, speculating about the matches to be made. 

He expects to be gossiped about, perhaps even shunned, but he did not expect the way women cut their eyes at him, whispering excitedly to one another as he enters. The Tyrells, hosts for the evening, greet him cordially and Viscountess Tyrell is even so kind as to point out his aunt across the room. 

“My handsome nephew,” she greets him in a gown of green and glittering gold. Even after all these years as a Frey, his aunt refused to succumb to wearing the drab house colors of blue and gray. 

“Your _obedient_ nephew,” he corrects with a smile. Genna pinches his ear, a habit since his boyhood, and places a kiss on each cheek. Jaime is still not sure why he is here at all or what good it will do for the Lannister family name. 

His aunt fills him in on which young women are likely to have their choice of matches. The Tyrells’ own daughter, Margaery, was already on the dance floor, partnered with a dark haired young man. Jaime spotted the Dowager Countess Stark and her brood across the room. Three boys, two of them wards, and her eldest daughter, Sansa Stark, who takes after her mother in both coloring and height. “Catelyn hopes to already have a match for Sansa,” Genna says, following his gaze. 

“Who?” 

“Loras Tyrell.” Jaime has to stifle his laugh, covering it with a cough. Genna gives him a warning look. 

“I should speak to her. I would be doing both Lady Stark and the young woman a favor. If we must participate in this absurd display of society, then at the very least, some of us should not be made _completely_ miserable.” The Lannister history with the Starks has not always been a pleasant one, but despite his roguish reputation, Jaime prefers to remain civil with many of the other society families. After Ned Stark’s death, he reached out to Catelyn, offering his assistance with any questions about inheritance or lands in the Stark fortune, and he felt they had reached a détente. 

Genna grips his arm, lowering her voice. “You may tell Lady Stark what you wish, but do not create a scene.” She smoothes a hand over her dress, smiling politely at people passing by. “You have your pick, nephew. You should realize how lucky you are.” It seems unlikely a well-bred woman would be interested in a much maligned family, even with his title, but the way everyone is watching him, Jaime does not doubt his aunt’s words. 

The Marchioness is pulled away by other guests, but he does little but continue to survey the room. Scarcely half an hour passed and Jaime is utterly bored. Bored enough that he is contemplating talking to Robb Stark. Just then, the crowds part to reveal three new arrivals making their way through the gaggle of guests. All three are of exceedingly tall stature; the two young women are twins and their dresses are the only thing that sets them apart, one donned in blue, the other in a pale pink. Behind them follows a rather dour looking young man, but his aunt’s grip on his elbow turns Jaime’s attention away from the newcomers. 

“The Tarths,” she whispers to him. The Tarths were a bit of a mystery. Even though they had been part of the ton for generations, with their ancestral home located on an island, hardly anyone in the city knew much about them. It was said that in recent years they had lost much of their wealth. “There are three daughters, but the eldest has been of age for some time and no one has ever seen her. I suppose that is the son escorting his younger sisters tonight.” 

“His name?” He thinks perhaps he’s crossed paths with the young Tarth lord before. The man is turned away from them now, but he wears a fine navy tailcoat and his thin blond hair is pulled back with a lighter blue ribbon. 

“Galladon. After Galladon of Morne.” Jaime knows the tale well. It had been one of his favorites when he was a young boy. 

“The sisters are Arianne and Alysanne.” But it is not the sisters he is interested in. For the first time all evening, he crosses the room. The man is truly tall. Galladon rose a good two or three inches above him. He taps Tarth on the shoulder and the young man turns around, only for Jaime to be left speechless. 

Galladon Tarth possesses the most striking blue eyes. 


	2. Tarth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grin slowly spreads across the man’s face and he leans towards her, lowering his voice. “Am I to believe you do not already know my name?” His expression is serene, yet conceited.

“We want to go to King’s Landing for the season.” Arianne’s strawberry blonde hair is gathered into a long plait, which falls over her shoulder as she exchanges a look with her twin, Alys. 

Brienne sighs and closes her book. Her day has been a long one--first spending time with the Kellington children, teaching them to read, then onto the ring where she spent a few hours with Ser Goodwin, instructing the younger boys in boxing--and she was hoping for a quiet evening. 

She’s never been interested in participating in the season but despite her protests, her father tried to make a match for her. It had not gone well. 

But her sisters are different and Brienne should have better anticipated their wishes. Her father had not been the same since their mother died, but it was worse now since Galladon had gone missing. It has been nearly a year and time has done little to soften her mourning of her older brother. She wishes he were here now. He would know what to do, what proper steps to take to assure her sisters were included in all the activities of the season. “I--We do not have a chaperone for you and I am not equipped.” 

“Perhaps you could write a letter to our cousin Endrew?” If their brother is indeed dead, it is their sole male cousin who will inherit the title and the lands of their childhood home, Evenfall. 

Brienne shakes her head at Alys. “He is serving in the Navy, he would not be able to get away for the entire season.” Her sisters share a disappointed look. “Allow me to think on it until morning. I am certain there is a solution.” 

But there is not. 

She stays up all night, until the sky begins to lighten from a dark indigo to a muted gray. Only then does an idea strike her and she sweeps aside the bedcovers, lighting a candle, and making her way through Evenfall’s halls. Brienne pushes open a door, holding her breath, the candle doing little to illuminate the room. Galladon’s room. 

There are a few books stacked by his bedside, as if any minute he might return and begin rifling through them, eager to read her a passage in his silliest voice. He always knew how to make her laugh. 

Opening the wardrobe, her fingers whisper across the rich fabrics of the tailcoats stored inside. A green, a dark red, and a fine navy. The green will only make her look wan and sickly, but she pulls out the navy. There are shirts, too, finer than the simple tunics she prefers to wear. 

The coat fits perfectly across her shoulders. Her sisters will have to show her how to tie a cravat and once they reach the city, she will need new pants tailored as she possesses wider hips than her brother. For now, standing in front of a mirror in his shirt, waistcoat, and tailcoat, she looks quite the part.

By the afternoon, Brienne is less confident in her plan. She is not fond of telling falsehoods, nor has she ever been any good at it, and cannot imagine their father will let his three daughters go off to the city alone when he has lost his only son. 

She brushes over everything in broad strokes. Alys and Arianne want to spend some time in the city for a change of pace and to visit friends. He barely questions her about any of the details, only says he will arrange for someone to open the house in King’s Landing for them, to contact the Dowager Countess Stark if they need assistance with anything, and assures her they will have access to whatever funds they desire for dresses. Brienne has rarely worn a dress since she was five years old. 

“Thank you.” She steps around his desk to press a kiss to his cheek and he clasps her hand in his own. Guilt swells up in her chest for leaving him here alone, but before they depart, she will tell his footman and Ser Goodwin to keep a close eye on him. 

Only after she receives their father’s blessing does she inform her sisters of her plan. They are wide-eyed with excitement and shock. “You never break the rules,” Alys says in a hushed whisper. 

Brienne’s existence breaks the rules. She boxes and is good at it, loves the smell--sawdust and sweat--of the ring, and the visceral sound of a punch connecting with its target. She prefers horses and dogs to making conversation. She is not slim and pretty or sharp and clever or talented at singing and the pianoforte. 

Her sisters, on the other hand, are everything anyone could want. Arianne is witty and fashionable, the more social one. Alys is quieter. Sweet, but reasonable where her sister is more romantic. 

Brienne is aware she does not have enough knowledge of society to protect her sisters from every suitor, but would shield them with her body before either came to harm. Perhaps she will contact the Dowager Countess as her father suggested. 

*

The day of the first ball arrives. Brienne’s nervous energy has nowhere to go. If they were at home on Tarth, she would spend the morning in the boxing ring, but here she is too afraid to masquerade at one of the men’s gyms and even more frightened of the women’s, which is in a seedier part of town. 

Instead, she stands with her hands clenched as her sisters fuss over her, helping her dress. “You look quite fine, _brother_.” Arianne practices, a knowing smile pulling at her pretty cheeks. 

“Very handsome,” Alys adds, taking a step back to admire Galladon. 

Her throat is dry, swallowing feels like rubbing sawdust between her fingers, and as she looks herself over in the mirror, her legs begin to tremble. “A glass of water?” she manages to ask, before her knees wobble and she lurches towards the divan. 

Alys appears over her, frowning. “Did you eat anything today?” 

Brienne wipes at the sweat on her upper lip. “Breakfast,” she replies weakly. 

“Then we will not leave until you have a proper meal,” her sister insists. 

Arianne returns with a glass of water and the two of them begin to argue. “We cannot be late!” 

“We cannot attend if our _brother_ is unable to walk!” Alys marches out of the room, but Brienne can hear her speaking sweetly to the maid in the hall. 

Arianne sinks down next to her, patting her shoulder fondly. “You did not have to do this for us. We are forever in your debt.” 

“You need not worry about repaying me, I would do anything for you. You are my _sisters_.” _You are all I have left._ Her chest tightens, thinking of Galladon. If her sisters do marry, they will leave Tarth and she will see them much less often. Brienne tries not to dwell on it. 

*

When they enter the Tyrells’, Brienne wishes she had told someone else of her scheme, because there is no port in a storm, and it does feel quite like standing in the center of a storm, everyone’s eyes on them. She spots the Dowager Countess Stark. Long ago, her father was close with Eddard, but her family has not visited with them since her sisters were born, and only her father and Galladon traveled to the north for the Earl’s funeral. 

Sansa Stark looks beautiful in an exquisite dress with hand detailing, tall and calm, much different than the fussy three year old Brienne remembers chasing after at Winterfell. Seeing Catelyn and Sansa and Jon and Theon makes her want to be recognized, to have a refuge, someone who _knows_ her. The young man standing beside Sansa turns away from the other gentlemen he was talking with and when his blue eyes meet hers, Brienne nearly gasps. _Robb._

His auburn hair curls artfully around his face and her stomach tightens. Sansa might be the diamond of the season, but there is no question Robb will have any number of women throwing themselves at him. She wonders why he is not already wed, perhaps because of his duties as Earl of Winterfell. 

There is no glint of recognition in his eye, which Brienne is grateful about, for her memories of their visit to Winterfell are probably quite different than her brother’s, and Robb might remember a moment shared with Galladon which she was not privy to, even though she recalls spending most of her time with the pair of them. 

A titter runs through the crowd behind them. Her sisters do not seem to notice, as they continue their path, smiling and nodding politely, but each muscle in Brienne is screaming at her to run. She has stood down men bigger than her in the ring, yet somehow a room full of members of the ton is more terrifying. 

Then there is a hand on Brienne’s shoulder. She turns, expecting someone has found her out already, perhaps even by Viscount Tyrell himself, but instead it is perhaps the most handsome man she’s ever seen. 

The man appears nearly as shocked as she feels, his jaw gone half slack even though he was the one to approach them, but he takes a breath and extends a hand. “Am I correct in assuming you are Lord Galladon of Tarth?” 

When she manages to tear her gaze away from his chiseled jaw, her eyes flicker over the slight crookedness of his nose, a common affliction from boxing. His blond hair is tousled carefully, curls sweeping across his forehead. The faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes draw her attention to how they sparkle, vibrant and verdant. He is dressed in the finest clothes, a coat of dark maroon and a gold cravat pulled low as if to show off the long line of his neck. 

Brienne forces herself to swallow and reply, “Yes, I am.” She offers her hand, shaking his firmly. Her sisters had told her not to put on a deeper voice, her natural one would do suitably. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but what is your name?” 

A grin slowly spreads across the man’s face and he leans towards her, lowering his voice. “Am I to believe you do not already know my name?” His expression is serene, yet conceited. 

Of course he is not as perfect as he first appeared. The smugness in his tone makes her want to recoil. “You approached me, my lord. Do you not care to introduce yourself?” 

“Quite right. I suppose I have some advantage in knowing the company I surround myself with,” he gestures to the room, continuing, “As I am not from a family which chooses to isolate itself on an island.” He allows a moment to pass, a clear but subtle way to underline his slight of her family. “But even there, I daresay my reputation precedes me.” 

Her hands clench at her sides. It is very difficult not to cross her arms over her chest and glower at this prideful, pompous...but she takes a deep breath and remembers her manners. “Then what is your name, sir?”

A single eyebrow ticks up almost imperceptibly. “Jaime Lannister, the Duke of Casterly Rock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments and support! I will admit that this is part of a longer idea that I would love to write someday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come now, Lord Tarth. It’s only polite to introduce me to your sisters.” His smile stretches across his face, as prideful as a cat who has gotten into the cream. This is a man who has been kowtowed to his whole life, who has likely been denied nothing, who has probably wooed daughters of the ton yet refuses to settle down with any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the 1995 Pride & Prejudice this week and then this happened. I do not make any promises for updating this on a regular schedule, but enjoy the next part!
> 
> For those who don't know, "gentlemen's clubs" of the Georgian/Regency era were quite different than what we consider them as today. They were mostly places for men to relax, have a drink and a meal, and gamble.

_It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others._ -Jane Austen

Jaime Lannister. 

The Duke of Casterly Rock. 

The Queen’s brother. 

The reasoning behind his conceit is now more apparent. As little as she knows about the ton, she at least knows _of_ his family. But why approach them at all if he is only going to be discourteous? Unless. Her sisters. Has one of them caught his interest? She glances behind her to see the two of them waiting patiently. 

The Duke clears his throat. “Come now, Lord Tarth. It’s only _polite_ to introduce me to your sisters.” His smile stretches across his face, as prideful as a cat who has gotten into the cream. This is a man who has been kowtowed to his whole life, who has likely been denied nothing, who has probably wooed daughters of the ton yet refuses to settle down with any of them. 

Maybe it was a mistake to come to the city, for everyone will expect her to be generous with introductions to her sisters, but gods, she has not known this man for five seconds and wants to deny him. At least once, so he knows what it is like. Her brother always said she was stubborn. 

But they are standing in the middle of a packed ballroom, all eyes on them, and she cannot make a scene on their first night. The attention might enable someone to quickly figure out her charade. She cannot have that, else her whole family would suffer ruin. 

Brienne is turning to introduce the Duke to her sisters when the Dowager Countess interrupts. “Lord Tarth, it has been so long since we have seen your family. I am delighted.” 

She nods politely at the Dowager Countess. “Thank you. We are pleased to be here.”

The woman’s blue eyes cut towards the Duke. “I apologize for this man’s insolence.” 

His mouth falls open in shock. “I beg your pardon. I was simply asking to be introduced to Lord Tarth’s lovely sisters.” Brienne watches the exchange between the two with a shocked pleasure, biting her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. She has vague memories of finding the Dowager Countess intimidating when she was a child, perhaps because the woman held little back, but now, she wishes to applaud her gumption. 

“Even though the Tarths have not attended the season before, it would not take much to know of your reputation,” Lady Catelyn replies pointedly.

A surprised laugh cracks out of Lannister. The smile on his face is no longer supercilious, but genuine, and there’s a momentary fondness in his eyes. “Very well,” he concedes with a nod at Lady Catelyn before he glances back at her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Tarth. I am sure I will see you again, darkening doorways with your charming sisters.” He gives Lady Catelyn’s shoulder a squeeze as he turns to go, the tails of his maroon coat swishing against the muted gray of her dress. 

Although Brienne is still a little stunned in the wake of the Duke’s quick departure, Lady Catelyn seems unaffected by it, asking for introductions to Arianne and Alysanne, who were only babies the last time she saw them. She points at Sansa and Robb, who are across the room at one of the refreshment tables, and mentions the children not here with her tonight: Arya, Bran, and Rickon. “Do you not have a third sister, Lord Tarth? I remember her well.” 

Brienne studies the Dowager Countess’ face for a long moment, searching for some sign that perhaps she, as Galladon, has already unveiled herself. “I do, Lady Catelyn. She was content to stay at home with our father.” 

She nods, as if it is sufficient explanation enough. “Once you are settled, you must come for dinner.” The idea of being under the gaze of all the Starks at once is a bit frightening, because it seems predictable that someone would see cracks in her appearance or performance as Galladon, but Lady Catelyn’s tone indicates it is not an offer, but a request.

“Thank you for the invitation.” It is what her father had requested of her anyway. She is tempted to ask more about the ton, a tiny part of her curious about why the Duke of Casterly Rock listened to the Dowager Countess. 

* 

_Seven Swords_ \- A Gentlemen’s Club, King’s Landing

The next afternoon, Jaime goes around to the Seven Swords to meet his friend Addam for lunch. 

While it was widely accepted among the ton that the Duke of Casterly Rock was known for his rakish smile and somewhat uncouth manners, no one ever treated him as if he did not belong. But Galladon Tarth was unable to hide his disgust in his steely blue gaze, and Jaime has been unable to stop thinking of it since.

“Did you hear of the Tarths’ appearance?” he asks his friend as soon as they dig into their meals. 

Addam coughs, taking a sip of ale. “The _Tarths_? I thought the family had lost their fortune.” 

“Have they? He raises a suspicious eyebrow, making a mental note to write to his brother to see if he can get information on the family. “They seemed perfectly comfortable last night.” Comfortable was not the best choice of words, for Lord Tarth seemed a bit reticent and overly cautious, which was a rather astute move on his part, as the ton are not known for their graciousness. “Have you ever met any of them before?” He missed a few seasons due to his travels. (Or perhaps he preferred traveling to the boredom of ballrooms.) 

“The eldest brother was here during our first season.” Jaime shakes his head and his friend regards him with surprise. “How do you not remember? He was quite taken with Elia.” 

He sees her dark hair, her perfectly shaped mouth, and brushes past those old feelings, best forgotten. “Why did he not marry?”

“Why haven’t you?” Addam asks with a wry grin. 

There are times when Jaime enjoys playing into this ridiculous reputation of his, but other times he finds it exhausting. His best friend found happiness several seasons ago with one of the Jeynes and it is more difficult for Jaime than he would care to admit, facing all of this alone. “You should come to the next ball. I want you to meet them.” 

His eyes darken, but he replies in a playful tone, “Do not tell me one of the daughters has captured your interest.” 

Not one of the daughters, no. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man’s brow furrows and he is starting to turn away, no doubt to follow his sisters, when Jaime says, “I think we should be friends.” 
> 
> Those bright blue eyes, so guileless. “Why?”

Addam keeps him too late at the club, and the next morning, upon waking, there is an unfamiliar arm wrapped around his middle. 

It has been a long time since he’s fallen in bed with someone who he didn’t already know quite well, although the ton prefers to gossip about him as if he had slept with all their daughters. And perhaps a few of their sons. 

Jaime laughs to himself as he opens the wardrobe and the woman in his bed stirs. “Where are you going?” she asks, squinting against the sunlight. Her hair is copper colored in the bright light, but it tumbles over her pale shoulder in such a pleasing way that he can’t resist returning to her side and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. 

“I have a duty to my aunt,” he says simply, because that’s all she needs to know. “If you want breakfast, I can have Peck meet you in the dining room.” 

The woman nods, but when she leans forward, clearly expecting a kiss, Jaime presses a quick one to her temple before slipping off the bed and returning to the mirror to dress.

By the time he arrives at the park, other men and women are already engaged in the ridiculous ritual. Men did women the ‘honor’ of asking to walk with them, but one party (or both) might use it as a way to dredge up interest and jealousy from others. 

Squinting under the noonday sun, Jaime wishes his aunt had shown an ounce of the Lannister family cruelty everyone else seemed to be gifted with, so he wouldn’t have to be here. 

A slight breeze picks up as he crosses towards the statue of the Smith, where his aunt and her various companions have set up camp. “Your cousin has already met quite a fetching young woman.” Jaime glances over to see the Stark clan clustered around the statue of the Mother and spots weak-chinned Emmon Frey talking to one of the Tarth daughters. _For seven’s sake_. 

Galladon Tarth is dressed in blue again and stands in the shadow of the statue, but even so, Jaime can make out the glowering looks Tarth is aiming at his cousin. Lady Stark tries to wrangle her three youngest, who are chasing each other. Lord Tarth says something to them and the trio stop, listening attentively before beginning to wander about in the brush. The youngest daughter, Arya, brandishes what they were clearly looking for, a branch about the length of her arm. She hands it to Galladon and goes to find another. 

Pia, one of his aunt’s staff, presses a plate of food into his hand, but Jaime would rather watch the Lord Tarth school the children in swordsmanship. 

He plays the good sport all afternoon, taking Margaery for a stroll around the pond, but he scarcely lets the Tarths out of his view. “You are being quite strange today,” the young lady Tyrell says. 

“It’s nothing.” But as the Westerlings approach the Tarths, he holds his breath as Jeyne socializes with Galladon. 

“Stop gripping my arm so tightly,” Margaery chides him. 

“My apologies.” 

“Why don’t you go ask her to walk with you if you’re so interested?”

He knows Margaery nearly as well as he does his own sister, having grown up alongside the Tyrells, but he is uncertain whom she means, eyes scanning the other clusters of people in the park. “Who?” 

“The other Tarth sister. You’ve been staring at her all afternoon.” 

“I have _not_.”

“Honestly,” she sighs. They turn by the statue of the Warrior and by the time they have rounded the pond again, the other Tarth sister and Robb Stark are walking towards them, followed by Emmon and the Tarth sister he seems to have won over in the course of an afternoon. A far distance behind them was Galladon Tarth, looking rather dour, and with his hands clasped behind his back. 

Jaime begins to walk more quickly, returning Margaery to her family, and then retracing his steps, catching up with the Tarth party. “If you successfully match both of your sisters in their first season, Lord Tarth, does that mean you will return to your little island?” 

He huffs out a breath, glaring sidelong at him, before replying, rather brusquely, “I do not know what favor you hope to curry by insulting my home.” 

“My lord, I do not seek anyone’s favor.” 

“That is quite clear.” Jaime is not used to anyone speaking to him so candidly and a surprised laugh falls out of his mouth. Galladon stops in his tracks and stares at him. “I do not think I said anything particularly clever. Only true.” 

It makes him laugh even harder. The man’s brow furrows and he is starting to turn away, no doubt to follow his sisters, when Jaime says, “I think we should be friends.” 

Those bright blue eyes, so guileless. “Why?” 

A burst of laughter escapes from Jaime’s chest again. “Because, no one else speaks that plainly with me.” 

“Then I am sorry to hear you have such poor friends.” Lord Tarth looks skeptical and perhaps a bit lost, uncertain as to what just happened, but he smoothes a hand over his waistcoat and mumbles something about needing to catch up with his sisters. 

Jaime follows, but the two of them say little else to each other, a hesitant air emanating off of Lord Tarth for the remainder of their stroll. As they approach the Starks, Arya runs up to them, asking Galladon to demonstrate the move he had shown them earlier. “You know swordsmanship.” It is a statement, not a question, but Lord Tarth gives him a small nod before approaching the children. 

“Ah, what have we done to receive a visit from the inimitable Duke.” 

“Lady Stark.” He drops into a deep bow, pressing a kiss to the top of her gloved hand. 

“You ridiculous man,” she chuckles as he rises. “We are hosting a dinner this weekend to welcome the Tarths to the city. You should join us.” 

“You are too kind.” 

His eyes dart away to where Galladon is playing with the children, but when his gaze returns to Catelyn’s, there’s a recognition in her steely blue gaze. “Is that an acceptance?” 

“It would be an honor, Lady Stark.” 

“I have a good feeling about this season,” she says, giving him a fond smile. “Even for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Life has gotten super busy for me, so I probably won't be doing much writing, but I will return at some point.


End file.
